A Quiver Full of Arrows

When Debbie opened the door, Michael thought she looked even more beautiful than he had remembered. She was wearing a long blue dress with a frilly white silk collar and cuffs that covered every part of her body from neck to ankles and yet she could not have been more desirable. She wore almost no makeup except a touch of lipstick that Michael already had plans to remove. Her green eyes sparkled.

“Say something,” she said, smiling.

“You look quite stunning, Debbie,” was all he could think of as he handed her the roses.

“How sweet of you,” she replied and invited him in.

Michael followed her into the kitchen, where she cut the long stems and arranged the flowers in a porcelain vase. She then led him into the living room, where she placed the roses on an oval table beside a photograph of two small boys.

“Have we time for a drink?”

“Sure. I’ve booked a table at Elaine’s for eight-thirty.”

“My favorite restaurant,” she said, with a smile that revealed a small dimple on her cheek. Without asking, Debbie poured two whiskeys and handed one of them to Michael.

What a good memory she has, he thought, as he nervously kept picking up and putting down his glass, like a teenager on his first date. When Michael eventually finished his drink, Debbie suggested that they should leave.

“Elaine wouldn’t keep a table free for one minute, even if you were Henry Kissinger.”

Michael laughed, and helped her on with her coat. As she unlatched the door, he realized there was no baby-sitter or sound of children. They must be staying with their father, he thought. Once on the street, he hailed a cab and directed the driver to 87th and Second. Michael had never been to Elaine’s before. The restaurant had been recommended by a friend from ABC who had assured him: “That joint will give you more than half a chance.”

As they entered the crowded room and waited by the bar for the maître d’, Michael could see it was the type of place that was frequented by the rich and famous and wondered if his pocket could stand the expense and, more importantly, whether such an outlay would turn out to be a worthwhile investment.

A waiter guided them to a small table at the back of the room, where they both had another whiskey while they studied the menu. When the waiter returned to take their order, Debbie wanted no first course, just the veal piccata, so Michael ordered the same for himself. She refused the addition of garlic butter. Michael allowed his expectations to rise slightly.

“How’s Adrian?” she asked.

“Oh, as well as can be expected,” Michael replied. “He sends you his love, of course.” He emphasized the word love.

“How kind of him to remember me, and please return mine. What brings you to New York this time, Michael? Another film?”

“No. New York may well have become everybody’s second city, but this time I only came to see you.”

“To see me?”

“Yes, I had a tape to edit while I was in Washington, but I always knew I could be through with that by lunch today so I hoped you would be free to spend an evening with me.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

She smiled. The veal arrived.

“Looks good,” said Michael.

“Tastes good, too,” said Debbie. “When do you fly home?”

“Tomorrow morning, eleven o’clock flight, I’m afraid.”

“Not left yourself time to do much in New York.”

“I only came up to see you,” Michael repeated. Debbie continued eating her veal. “Why would any man want to divorce you, Debbie?”

“Oh, nothing very original, I’m afraid. He fell in love with a twenty-two-year-old blonde and left his thirty-two-year-old wife.”

“Silly man. He should have had an affair with the twenty-two-year-old blonde and remained faithful to his thirty-two-year-old wife.”

“Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”